


COLORS BURST AS I CLOSE MY EYES

by AgnesClementine



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Self-Indulgent, author doesn't know what she's doing, but - Freeform, it's got the feels, jesus fuck what do i even tag this, this is so fucking short lmao, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:48:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28299966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnesClementine/pseuds/AgnesClementine
Summary: If Willie finds it strange that he’s lying on his own grave- his body six feet below him, rotten along with the coffin and reclaimed by the earth- he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he says, “Hey, Hotdog,” and gets down on his knees near Alex’s shoulder. His hair is spilling down around his face in soft waves and looking at him feels like looking at an old photograph, bleached into golds and browns and bronzes by the light.
Relationships: Alex Mercer/Willie (Julie and The Phantoms)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 172





	COLORS BURST AS I CLOSE MY EYES

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [heaven's grief (brings hell's rain)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28294653) by [HearJessRoar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HearJessRoar/pseuds/HearJessRoar). 



> Back on my bullshit so soon? Why, yes, I am. I love these boys so much and got inspired by another wonderful fic (Go check it out, you won't regret it!!) so this is what came out of that.
> 
> Kinda hate how short this is bc I have Many feelings about the boys and graveyards- but my brain won't cooperate ajjhhjh XD
> 
> That being said, I have no idea if this is coherent at all.
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think and enjoy! :)
> 
> And Marry Christmas! <3

Alex’s maternal grandmother died when he was seven. He remembers his mom crying so loud it echoed through the house and then being silent during the funeral, manicured fingernails digging into Alex’s skin through his dress shirt and suit jacket where her hand was clasped over his shoulder. They buried her in the family plot, all of their names etched into headstones in a neat line. Alex spent the whole funeral staring at his own, wanting to go over and just lay in the grass because it was his and he was tired of just standing there while the priest talked and people cried. It hasn’t really hit him yet that grandma was gone for good.

Later, when he was still alive and the years kept passing and the pressure kept building in his chest, he found himself thinking about it. His name on a headstone and a patch of green grass and eternity of fucking peace.

And then, even later, after he died, he hasn’t thought about it until he did- and then he kept putting it off because ignorance sometimes really is bliss. 

But that’s where Willie finds him, spread out in the grass under his own stone cross. The blades tickle his exposed skin and the Sun shines down on him, sinking down into him feather-light and warm.

If Willie finds it strange that he’s lying on his own grave- his body six feet below him, rotten along with the coffin and reclaimed by the earth- he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he says, “Hey, Hotdog,” and gets down on his knees near Alex’s shoulder. His hair is spilling down around his face in soft waves and looking at him feels like looking at an old photograph, bleached into golds and browns and bronzes by the light.

“I was wondering if they buried me in the family plot,” Alex says, turning his palms heaven-wards, left thumb skimming the denim of Willie’s jeans, squinting at the sky.

“Would it be bad if they didn’t?” Willie asks quietly.

“No,” Alex says, confident because he made a promise to himself to not care. But then he changes it to: “Yes.”

He watches as Willie lifts his hand and drags his palm over the sun-warmed headstone. It’s so warm outside and if Alex squeezes his eyes hard enough to have white burst behind his eyelids, he can almost pretend that he’s made out of light itself.

“So it’s a good thing they did,” Willie guesses. When Alex cranes his head up to see what he’s doing, he finds him tracing his finger over the letter of Alex’s name.

“They didn’t hate me after I came out,” he hears himself say and closes his eyes. “I was still their son. But something shifted. Like- like I was the wrong version of what they wanted.”

He was like the chipped mug in the porcelain set that his mom refused to throw out because it was a family heirloom but that she didn’t bring out when they had guests. They were usually one short, and Alex was always the one to get a mismatched one.

“And that’s what hurt, you know? The way they looked at me like something foreign, something that they don’t actually need or want,” he says, voice shaking because he told this to the guys; when he came to the studio that same night, shaking and freaking out and refusing to cry, but telling Willie, 25 years into the future, on his own grave and ten feet away from where his grandma was buried all those years ago, feels like taking a crowbar to a china display in their living room. Cathartic. 

Willie makes a distressed noise above him, shuffles closer until his knee presses against Alex’s shoulder.

Alex grimaces, eyes tightly shut, and admits, “It hurt and I still loved them, but, I swear I hated them just as much.”

It burned in his chest, even now, the feverish, blinding hate for how their parents tried to sweep him under the carpet with Mom’s liquor and pills and Dad’s string of mistresses.

“And I hoped, prayed to their precious God that we’d become so goddamn big that they couldn’t avoid me. On TV, on the radio, in magazines, and in the newspaper, I wanted us to be bigger than life so that whatever the fuck they did, I would always be there, reminding them that I exist.”

Alex wanted them to be gods, Luke’s lyrics their gospel. He sort of got his wish, he thinks, because they’re still here, despite everything.

When he opens his eyes, the Sun is like a halo around Willie’s head, his eyes fixed on Alex so intently that he’s sure his blood vessels are turning into branches of light. 

He pushes his palm against Alex’s name on the headstone and then drops it on Alex’s chest, thumb dipping into the hollow of his throat. “You are,” Willie says.

“What?”

“Bigger than life.” And then he moves, lying himself down over Alex, pushing him into the ground. He interlocks his fingers under the back of Alex’s head, braced on his forearms, and Alex thinks this is what coming home feels like.

He feels Willie’s breath on his face, just for a moment before he kisses him. The smooth, warm glide of their lips makes his fingers clench around the fabric of Willie’s shirt. He’s too big for his body, suddenly, and he wants to shed his skin, strip down to nothing but his soul. And he wants Willie to see every part of him, flawed and insecure and furious and loving, and leave his fingerprints on each of them. 

He feels their teeth touching when Willie pushes into the kiss harder before pulling back just enough to speak against Alex’s lips. “I swear, Alex, your parents spent their whole lives blindfolded.”

Alex is not quite sure what to make of that, but Willie kisses him before he can respond anyway. He kisses like he’s worshiping; like it’s something holy.

“You won, Alex,” he murmurs against his lips. “You’re here and you’re loved and you’re happy. I’m gonna make you so happy, I promise you.”

Alex presses into the kiss with new vigor, trembling, and pours all of his love into Willie, squeezing his eyes closed until colors burst behind his eyelids.


End file.
